


NATURE WINS 



R t COMEDY I IN t FOUR t SCTS, 



BY 



susa s.Vance, 



Author of "Lois Carrol.' 



FOR SEVEN CHARACTERS. 



SAINT JOSEPH, MO. : 

CHARLIE FASSBTT'S "PLEASURE AND PROFIT" PRINTING-HOUSE. 

1883. 



NATURE WINS: 



S x COMEDY UN l FOUR I fiCTS, 



SUSA S. VANCE, 



author of "Lois Carrot,." 



FOR SEVEN CHARACTERS. 



3 / 



^o~l^^f 



SAINT JOSEPH, MO.: 
CHARLIE FASSETT'S "PLEASURE AND PROFIT" PRINTING-HOUSE. 

1883. 






Copyright, 1883. 
BY SUSA S. VANCE. 



DEDICATION 



On account of my admiration for her acting, I take the 
liberty of dedicating " Nature Wins " to the celebrated and 
talented actress, Miss Maggie Mitchell. 

THE AUTHOR. 



DESCRIPTION OF COSTUMES. 



Mrs. Wallace — In all four acts, a Mother Hubbard dress, 
or any sort of plain, loose dress, swung from the shoulders. 

Ivy Wallace— In first three acts, a girl's dark-blue sailor-suit. 
No ornamentation. Plain, country hat. Hair short, dishev- 
eled and curly, or in two long braids hanging down the 
back. In the fourth act, a long-trailed fashionable dn 

Louise Arlington — In three acts, a long-trailed fashionable 
dress. In second act, a handsome bonnet, trimmed with 
lace and flowers. 

Mr. Leath — In all four acts, costume of old-fashioned, 
eccentric gentleman. 

Frank Wallace — In all four acts, plain suit of a young 
country gentleman. 

.neth Arlington — In three acts, elegant costume of a city 
gentleman, but not a "dude." 

John Wallace — Long iron-gray beard and hair: strange, out- 
landish costume of a man who has been out of the world, 
on an island, among savages, seventeen years. An old 
sailor's -nit might do. 



NATURE WINS 



A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS. 



LIST OF CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Mildred Wallace, a supposed widow. 

Ivy Wallace, her daughter. 

Frank Wallace, her son. 

(Paul Leath, Mrs. Wallace's brother— an old bachelor. 

John Wallace, shipwrecked husband. 

Kenneth Arlington, \ Brother and sister, and cousins of 

Louise Arlington, ) the Wallaces. 



ACT I. 

Scene 1. — A Lawn, with trees and country house, chaws, &*c 

Mr. Leath {walking stage slowly). That sister of mine is 
the brightest woman in America to-day. She is a wonder- 
ful, wonderful woman. She has some rather queer ideas of 
her own, but withal a clear, fine mind In fact, she has 
brains {touching his forehead) like a man. She would not 
thank me for the comparison, however. Ha, ha ! 

Enter Mrs. Wallace {in time to hear the last sentence). 

Mrs. Wallace. No, brother, I don't like the comparison. 

Don't say that I have brains like a man, but like a woman. 

That is the better compliment. You are the only man in 

the world that I like, and you have some qualities that are 



6 NATURE WINS. 



too good for a man. You must have inherited them from 
your mother. Men arc mostly selfish, conceited, overbear- 
ing, stingy, and given over to self-gratification. Not that 
they show these fine traits to each other, but to their women- 
folk — to those they have at their- mercy. (Walks about rest= 
lessly at back of stage.) 

Mr. L. There she goes, off on her hobby, but /don't mind 
it. She is a woman of splendid heart, in spite of it, and 
wonderful mind. 

Mrs. W. {coming to front). Brother, I wonder you haven't 
tired of this monotonous, country life, long ago— of our strict 
seclusion, and of my peculiar theories. 

Mr. L. No, sister; I have considered it a great privi- 
leclge to have the constant companionship of a woman of 
your superior intellect. You know I have never been able 
to forget the romance of my youth. After Heaven claimed 
the object of my affections, I only felt desirous of leading a 
quiet, retired life, and, thanks to you and your interesting 
children, it has not proved a lonely or a useless one. 

Mrs. W. Indeed it has not, brother. Oh, if there were 
only more men like you in the world ! What should we 
have done without you? It would have been almost impos- 
sible for me to have carried out my ideas in educating my 
children without your assistance. You have been a father 
to them ; and together we have kept their minds unsullied 
from the world. (Mr. L. sits.) 

Mr. L. I have helped you educate them, Mildred, with 
all my heart, and they have grown as dear to me as if thev 
were my own ; but I have only been a passive instrument in 
assisting you to keep them so entirely ignorant of the ways 
of the world. You have never altogether convinced me of 
the wisdom of rearing them to manhood and womanhood in 
this hermit-like fashion. Frank is now nearly a man, and 
Ivy nearly a woman; yet, they are unsophisticated as babes 
in long elothes. You must surely begin to realize that this 
cannot last. It was all well enough while they Were 
children, hut how is it possible to continue it? That is the 
question 1 should think you would ask yourself a dozen 
t imes a day. 

M It was only possible to keep Frank in this sort 

of retirement, and utter ignorance of the ways of the 
world, until time for him to go to college. That time has 

about arrived ; he is twenty years old. 1 have only secluded 
him and kept from him all sentimental hooks. for Ivy*s sake. 



NATURE WINS. 



It would not have mattered about the boy, but for his asso- 
ciation with the girl. I do not wish to stand in the way of 
his marrying when the time comes, because it will be to his 
advantage. According to my theory, it is better for all men 
to marry, but worse for all women. Woman is man's natural 
victim. She seems to be made for his pleasure and her 
own discomfort, as much as some of the lower animals, who 
drag out a laborious existence, entirely for the purpose of 
administering to the wants of man. I have wondered if this 
could have been the intention of an all-wise and all-merciful 
God, or if men have made it so through their superior brute- 
strength, which enabled them to do injustice to those weaker 
physically, but equal mentally. If my son can find a girl 
who has no better sense than to marry him, I shall not make 
the slightest objection. I think that every girl who has a 
good home, is a fool to unite herself to some man she fancies 
at the time she is very much in love with, for his pleasure 
and her own misery. If he be rich, she may experience the 
shame of being generously reminded, a dozen times a day, of 
what his money has done for her ; and if he be poor-- well, 
it is all very well to talk about " the joy of sharing poverty 
with one she loves," but when it comes down to the stern 
reality, it means often to be the one to do the manual labor 
around his house, while he goes to his office or store to gain 
a livelihood by the exercise of his lordly brain, and keeps his 
aristocratic hands white and soft, and free from all signs of 
poverty. It means to black his boots while he reads his news- 
papers, to almost faint over a hot cook-stove, to prepare my 
lord's dinner, while he sits in an easy chair and leisurely 
copies his brief. It means to sit up all night nursing 
sick children, while my lord takes the rest he is bound, to 
have under any circumstances, unless he be ill himself, and 
then the whole household must be up to minister to his 
wants. It means, too often, the breaking down of constitu- 
tion under the maternal and domestic cares, and hard labor 
of the woman who attempts, unaided, to do the work of a 
household. I have known many husbands who have seen 
their wives die thus, by inches, who were well able, finan- 
cially, to keep a house full of servants. But they are afraid, 
these selfish brutes, that they will be a little curtailed in 
fine cigars and liquors, or might have to give up their horses 
and buggies. Better gradually and slowly murder the deli- 
cate wife, and have her out of the way. It is easy enough to 
get another. I say it with shame for our sex, that wives are 
so easily won. 



8 NATURE WINS. 



Mr. L. Ah, sister, you look only upon the dark side. 
You pick out the evil' examples. There are some happy 
marriages. With all due respect for your remarkably fine 
judgment, I must say that I think you are naturally influ- 
enced by your own sad experience. 

Mrs. W. Perhaps bo, brother, to some extent; but I also 
get my opinions from observation. I have known a great 
many married couples, but the happy ones have been like 
angels' visits, " few and far between." A thoroughly con- 
genial married couple should be secured by Barnum, and 
exhibited as one of the greatest curiosities of the age. I 
shall exert every energy of my mind to prevent my daughter 
from ever becoming the wife, or in other words, the slave of 
any man. I'd rather see her dead and in her coffin — would 
rather see her in her shroud than in bridal robes. 

Mr. L. Oh, sister, sister, your are using strong language. 

Mrs. W. That is why I have so studiously kept from her 
all knowledge of the ways of the world ; have lived in the 
country, and have avoided our very neighbors, to prevent 
her associating with other young people ; have taught her 
the sciences and languages, but have absolutely prevented 
her reading anything sentimental. Of course, when she is a 
grown woman, I must let her become familiar with the 
standard romance writers and poets, to complete her educa- 
tion. But first, I wish to have her character fully formed, 
and have her thoroughly imbued with a dislike for men, 
and alive to the danger of the allurements of merely poetical 
fancy. Most girls marry because they learn from senti- 
mental novels that it is a fine thing. They should be pitied 
for their credulity. (Ivy heard approaching from without, and 
whistling or singing.) 

Mr. L. There comes our dear girl. She enters like a ray 
of sunshine. I don't exactly like the idea of keeping her 
like a nun, always, Mildred, and guarding her in this her- 
mitage, merely to gladden our old hearts ; for you know I 
don't altogether share 1 your opinions, with all due respect 
lor your superior intellect: but your experiment in training 
her, so far, has made of her the most unique and refreshing 
little morsel of humanity I ever saw. 

(Enter Ivy. L., -zvhistling or singing, with her hat and hands 
full of flowers. Throws hat on bench.) 

Ivy. I have found the dear old uncle, and mother, at last, 
who seem to have forgotten entirely that this is my birthday. 
:ses each.) What makes you look so serious, mother, dear ? 
Your face is flushed with excitement. 



NATURE WINS. 



Mrs. W. Oh, it is nothing, clear child. I am happy in 
remembering with you that this is the anniversary of your 
birth. 

Mr. L. And how old are you now? About fourteen, I 
think. 

Ivy. Fourteen ! Why, uncle, the idea of your forgetting 

my age. Look what a big girl I am ! I am seventeen to-day ; 

and I begin to think that I'm a dreadfully rough, wild thing 

y ««f my age. Perhaps I ought to be more like a woman now 

— ought I not, mother? 

Mrs. W. {startled). A woman ! What nonsense you are 
talking, child. You will not be a woman for several years 
yet; and, in the meantime, I want you to enjoy your wild, 
free life to its fullest extent— to run and jump and skip 
and drink in this health-giving, glorious country air, and 
take as much pleasure as ever in your country sports — in 
hunting your birds' nests, in fishing and horseback riding, 
and in your many pets. 

Ivy. Oh, I shall always love my pets, my flowers, and my 
pony; but, mother, I don't care as much as I used for 
hunting birds' nests and wild fruit, for pktying ball, and 
those kinds of childish things. 

Mrs. W. They are not too childish for you, Ivy, you are 
nothing but a child. They give you healthful exercise, when 
not at your studies. 

Ivy. Let me tell you what brother heard a few days ago. 
While out hunting he stopped at a farm house, and — 

Mrs. W. Stopped at a farm house ! I told him never to 
do such a thing ! 

Ivy. It was only at the door, mother, to ask for a drink of 
water. He said he was so thirsty, and while drinking, a 
young girl, not so old as I, ran across the lawn, singing and 
whistling, and her mother called her and scolded her for 
being so noisy and rude ; telling her to be more quiet and 
lad}'-like. 

Mrs. W. Quiet and lady-like ! What conventional non- 
sense. That mother must have been narrow minded and 
stupid, my dear. We like to hear your voice ring out joy- 
fully all over the place, Ivy, and if we like it, it is right for 
you to be as gay and noisy as you please. 

Mr. L. {rising). Since this is your birthday, Ivy, I don't 
know of a better way that I could celebrate it than by 
going with you for a ride. 



10 NATURE WINS. 



Ivy. (clapping her hands). Oh, uncle, how delightful that 
will be! You don't go with me often, now. (Kisses and 
swings him around by the arms, and whistles or sings.) 

Mr. L. There, there; you forget that my old arms are 
getting rheumatic. Let go, you little witch. (Exit l. e.) 

Mrs. W. Ivy, what have you been doing with yourself 
the last hour or so? 

Ivy. Why, I thought as this was my birthday, mother, 
and we had holiday from studies, I would be as gay, and do 
as many extravagant and ridiculous things as I pleased; so 
I went to hunt my pet pig from the herd, and tie a blue 
ribbon on his neck. He has grown so, and become so wild, 
that he hardly knew me. He was dreadfully dirty, too. I 
was determined to have him clean, so the blue ribbon would 
not look inappropriate, so I tolled him along down to the 
bridge and rolled him in. He likes a muddy puddle, but he 
didn't like the clear, cold water. Ha, ha. ha! He squealed 
and ran away from me in the most injured way. I think his 
feelings were dreadfully hurt. But at last 1 brought him 
back with some ears of corn, and had an opportunity to tie 
the blue ribbon on. 

Mrs. W. He very much resembles many bipeds of the 
male gender. They usually only need self-interest as a bait 
to attract them. 

Ivy. Are most men very selfish, mother? 

Mrs. W. Terribly selfish, my dear. Your uncle and 
your brother are exceptions to the general rule, you know. 
I hope if your brother ever marries he will not be very 
unkind to his wife. I should feel sorry for her. 

Ivy. I don't think my good brother could ever be unkind 
to any one, mother. Is it not a pity all men are not like 
him ? 

Mrs. W. It is, indeed, my dear. That is just what I 
said of my brother a while ago. 

Ivy, i. ). If most men are so bad, mother, and so 

unkind, why don't the women make them remain single? 

Mrs. W. Because most women are fools, my child. Intel- 
ligent persons in this world are greatly in the minority. 
Women remind me of (lies — we see them deliberately go into 
the Bpider's web over and over again. 
Now that's .wo ions, isn't it ? 

Mrs. W. It' young girls knew as well as we old women 
do, what selfish and despotic and contempt ible creatures 
men are, they would remain with their kind and loving 



NATURE WINS. 11 



mothers. A mother rarely ever tires of her own child, or 
neglects or deserts her. Girls should cling to their mothers 
as long as life lasts; for they will never find anybody to love 
them as the mother does. 

Ivy. (timidly and hesitatingly). I was asking uncle some 
questions the other day, and one was, why all people didn't 
stay single as he was; and he said he supposed it was 
because they didn't have any fathers -and mothers, or 
brothers and sisters, or uncles and aunts, or nieces and 
nephews, and they get lonesome and so they get married. 

Mrs, W. Then if they are that lonesome, they should not 
make fools of themselves, but should travel over the world 
and see the sights and the great works of art. That is what 
you and I shall do some day, Ivy, when you are older and 
your brother is at college. It would not be hard to induce 
3'our uncle to take a trip with us. He would probably have 
gone when he and I inherited our fortune, at the death of 
our father, but that he could not bring himself to leave us. 

{Enter Mr. L. } L. e.) 

Mr. L. Now, Ivy, the horses are ready, and we'shall have 
a nice ride. {Mrs. Wallace lakes hat from bench, arranges it 
on Ivy's head and then kisses her — both standing at back of 
stage.) 

Mr. L. What a remarkably sensible women my sister is, 
to so completely disregard fashion. Not many women would 
be strong-minded enough to dress as she does. Most 
of them would rig their seventeen-year-old daughters up in 
ridiculous, long riding-habits. Both she and Ivy are inno- 
cent of whalebones and crinolines. 

(Enter Frank Wallace, l. e.) 

Frank. Going for a ride, Ivy? Uncle, this letter has just 
arrived for you. A letter is a sort of curiosity among us, 
isn't it ? 

Mr. L. In other words, my boy, you would like to know 
what this one contains. Perhaps I can satisfy you. (Opens 
letter and reads it.) Mildred, this comes from our cousin, 
Emma Arlington. You know I met her when on my last 
business trip. She insisted on taking me to her house, and 
overwhelmed me with kindness, as well as with questions 
about you, and protestations that her old friendship for you 
was as warm as ever. She seemed to deeply feel what she 
called your neglect of her of late years. You remember I 
told you on my return what a happy couple she and her 



12 NATURE WJXS. 



husband seemed to be, and of her two fine children — a young 
man and a young lady. In this letter she informs me that 
she is sending them on a visit to us. 

Frank. A visit from a young lady ! 

Mr. L. Exactly. 

Ivy. A visit from a young man! 

Mr. L. That's what he seemed to be. 

Mrs. W. What audacity, to disturb our privacy in this 
way, without invitation! 

Mr. L. Not entirely without invitation, Mildred. Emma 
hinted very strongly to me that she would like to send them 
— said they had never been in the country, and how 
delighted she would be to know your children, and have you 
know hers. So, of course, I said I should be delighted — that 
is, I mean I tried not to seem impolite, and said she ought 
to send them some time. She writes that they will arrive 
on the fourth of this month. 

All the others. That is to-day ! 

Mrs. W. Great heavens! what can I do? 

Mr. L. I don't see that anybody can do anything but me; 
and what I have to do is to get out the old carriage and go 
to the station for them, when the train is due, in about an 
hour. I believe there is something you can do, too. Mildred. 
You can have some rooms made ready for them, and you can 
be the noble hostess that you knew so well how to be in old 
times, and give them a kind welcome. That will do more 
toward making them comfortable, than soft beds and a well- 
laden table. 

Mrs. W. This interferes terribly with my plans. I can- 
not help feeling extremely vexed; and yet, for their 
mother's sake, 1 must make them welcome. 

Mr. L. I am sure, sister, that a woman of your superior 
mind can arise to the emergency, and suppress your 
annoyance sufficiently to be kind to them. Besides, our 
young cousins are charming, and you will probably like 
t hem for themselves. 

Mrs. W. Even for their mother's sake, I could hardly 
like a foppish city beau, and a fashionable young lady, who 
are about to disturb our quiet life, and probably initiate 
my children into worldly and frivolous, or sentimental, vie ws 
of life; but I shall compel myself to be polite them. 

Mr. L. Ivy, our ride will have to be postponed till some 
other day, because 1 shall have to go immediately to the 
station. | Exit, L. k. ) 



NATURE WINS. 13 



Frank. Mother, there are some questions I should like to 
ask you, which have long been puzzling my mind. There 
must have been some distressing experience in your past 
life, that has saddened you very much, and separated you 
from all your old friends. 

Ivy. Yes ; you have never talked to us of this cousin, 
Mrs. Arlington, who seems to have been so dear a friend to 
you, and who so deeply regrets your neglect of her. 

Frank. There was one still nearer to us of whom you 
never speak. Will you not now tell us of our father? 

Ivy. Yes; do tell us of our father. Would he not also 
have loved us if he had lived ? 

Mrs. W. {coldly). It was hardly in his nature to love any 
one but himself. (All sit.) 

Ivy. How was it you married so cold and selfish a man ? 

Mrs. W. Oh, he was loving enough in our courtship days. 
All men are when they are trying to win a wife. They make 
man}^ promises " to always love and cherish the one who is 
dearer to them than life," to use their own hypocritical 
phrase; when the truth is, that one can hardly be depended 
on, after marriage, to lose a single night's sleep to save the 
life of a wife who is ill. (Turning to Ivy. )~Men know how to 
to make love charmingly ; they can talk like angels, and act 
like brutes. 

Frank. But will you tell us of your own married life, 
mother ? 

Mrs. W. Yes; it is time you both should know now, and 
I shall give you my history as briefly as possible, as it is an 
extremely painful subject to me. I would like to say as 
little as possible that is harsh of your father. When I 
became engaged to him, my father (a very wealthy man) 
so seriously objected to the match, that he threatened to 
disown me if I married Mr. Wallace ; but I was young, 
foolish and romantic, and was so much in love with him, 
that I could not see his fan Its. These consisted in a want of 
practical sense, and a cold selfishness, which absorbed him 
completely in his own theories. He was b}^ taste and educa- 
tion an enthusiastic astronomer, but by inheritance, a 
cotton planter. He owned a small plantation in Louisiana, 
on the Mississippi river. We were married secretly, one 
day while out walking, and left the city immediately, to 
avoid my father's anger. We lived four years after that 
on my husband's plantation, and he seemed for a w T hile to 
to be making an effort to cultivate his neglected lands. 



14 NATURE WINS. 



His heart was not in his work, however, and he spent hours 
and hours in poring over his books and studying his 
favorite science. He had neglected most of his other studies 
for it while at college. As somewhat of an excuse for his 
treatment of me, I must say, that after long years of think- 
ing over the subject, I have come to the conclusion that he 
was not altogether sane. His love for astronomy amounted 
to a passion, a monomania, that completely absorbed his 
mind and took it off every other subject. He had no taste, 
whatever, for farming, and grew more tired of it, and my pro- 
tests against his neglect of all means of giving us a support. 
As he neglected his land more and more, we had to give up 
the very comforts of life, and I did heavy work that I was 
totally unfitted for, as I had been reared in luxury. 

Frank. Could he sit by with folded hands and see his 
delicately nurtured wife do manual labor ? 

Mrs. W. Oh, he seemed to be unconscious of it. Frank, you 
were born a year after our marriage. Sometimes, when I felt 
almost too weak to walk across the floor, I was obliged to cul- 
tivate the garden with my own hands, milk cows, cook, and 
do all such work, while my husband sat in his study with 
his books and instruments, and writing lectures, with which 
he expected to make a living. 

Ivy. My poor mother; is it possible you had to suffer so! 

Mrs. W\ After my second child was born, he left me alone 
to struggle for existence, while he went about delivering lec- 
tures on astronomy, and making just barely enough to sup- 
port himself; at least he did not send me a cent. After he 
left, I took the farm into my own hands, and rented most of 
it, thereby gaining enough to support myself and children, 
without needing to work so hard; for, at times, I feared it 
was breaking ray constitution terribly. Occasionally, when 
it was on his direct route, your father came to see us, but 
took hardly any interest in his family. The last time he 
came there, he was exultant over a letter he had just 
received, asking him to join a government expedition to 
some island in a distant part of the globe, to make an 
important astronomical observation. He had accepted the 
offer, and was enthusiastic over what he called the rare priv- 
ilege. While he was with us, one of those disastrous over- 
Hows of the river came upon us so suddenly that we w r ere 
obliged t<> lice to a hovel on the only high ground within 
miles of us. An old colored man and his wife lived in a 
part of it. There you were horn, Ivy, amid surroundings 



NATURE WINS. 15 



more fit to usher in the life of the poorest peasant child, 
than my rich father's grandchild. I shall tell you very 
briefly of the privations we endured there, because any long 
description of it would be too painful for both of us. 

Frank. Did my father make no effort to go in a boat to 
procure comforts for you ? 

Mrs. W. No. His chief anxiety was to get away in time 
not to miss his expedition. I had three children then, and 
if it had not been for the assistance of the old colored couple, 
we should almost have starved. 

Ivy. I can hardly believe it possible that we had such a 
heartless father. 

Mrs. W. I had thought that it would be impossible lor 
him to leave us in our forlorn condition, when the time 
came; but, shortly after we arrived at our place of refuge, 
he sent, by a man in a passing boat, a letter to my brother, 
Paul Leath, telling him to come and take charge of us. 
Ivy. Had you never written to your father for assistance? 
Mrs. W. No ; I knew his cold and unforgiving nature too 
well. My brother was in business and making a good living 
for himself, but I shrank from exposing my husband's faults 
even to him. , 

Ivy. Oh, mother, how I wish we had been old enough to 
help you, instead of being a burden. 

Mrs. W. Although my children were a care to me, con- 
tradictory as it may seeni, they were the only joy of my life. 
I could not help still clinging to my husband. My affection 
for him had not all perished, and his intention to leave us as 
we were then situated, was breaking my heart. The land 
was covered with the pitiless, brown waters of the Missis- 
sippi for miles around us, with the exception of the high 
ground on which the negro cabin was built. We were liv- 
ing entirely upon the bounty of the kind colored couple, but 
the woman was so aged that she could give me very little 
assistance in caring for my children. I implored, even 
prayed my husband not to leave us, but he thought it 
foolish of me to wish to make him miss the astronomical 
expedition— what he called " the grand opportunity of his 
life." When Ivy was ten days old, he left us, and the last 
time I ever saw 'him was through a mist of tears, when he 
disappeared in his little boat, like a tiny speck, far off upon 
the waters. 

Ivy. {sadly). He left us? 



16 NATURE WINS. 



Frank. I was in hopes he would have relented at the last 
moment — that the helplessness of his family would have 
appealed to even his heart. 

Mrs. W. My grief threw me into a fever, and I was 
delirous for days. On recovering, I missed from the room 
my little two-year-old girl — your sister Alice. She was a 
beautiful child — the very idol of my heart — and I called for 
her to be brought to me. I cannot tell you how overwhelmed 
I was with horror and misery, when they pointed through 
the window to a little freshly made grave. My little darling 
had gone from me while I was unconscious. ,She had prob- 
ably died from want of attention. 
(A *pause, during which Mrs. Wallace, Frank and Ivy are 

overcome with emotion, and John Wallace is seen creeping 

from behind a tree. He comes up behind the others unper- 

ceived, looks curiously at each of them, and then returns to the 

tree.) 

Mrs. W. My terrible grief would have driven me insane, 
if I had not been compelled to make a powerful effort to con- 
trol it, for the sake of the two children I had left. 

Ivy. It is too painful for you, mother, to be obliged to 
refer to this horrible time of your life. Let us imagine the 
rest. Our uncle came for you, thank God, and took you to a 
comfortable home. 

Mrs. W. Yes, he has been the best brother woman ever 
had. 

Ivy. And so, you see, in place of one heartless man, God 
gave us another noble one. I fancy it is so all over the world. 
For every bad man, may there not be a good one? 

Frank. Yes, it is hardly just or fair, because of your own 
sad experience, to think the great majority of men bad. 
You have not told us of our father's death. Did it occur 
while he was abroad? 

Mrs. W. I have never known anything positively about it. 
The ship on which he sailed for home must have gone down 
in a storm. It was never heard of after it was spoken by a 
certain steamer in mid-ocean. 

Ivy. Dear mother, Frank and I will do our best to make 
your life a happy one now. Come; let us go and gather 
(lowers, and dress np the old house, to make it bright for 
our cousins. 

Curtain. 

END OF FIRST ACT. 



NATURE WINS. 17 



ACT II. 

Scene— A country drawing-room. 

{Enter the fonr young cousins. Come down, Ivy, R. c, Louise, 
l. c, Frank, R., Kenneth, l. 

Ivy. How jolly it is to have cousins to come and visit us. 
We never did have any company before. 

Louise. Never in your lives? 

Ivy. No; never since I can remember. When we first 
came to this neighborhood I was a baby, and people called 
onus; but mother excused herself to every one, till they 
became offended — our old cook says — and ceased coming. 

Frank. Did you come on the steam-cars? 

Louise. Why, certainly. 

Ivy. We never saw the steam-cars. 

Louise. How strange ! You don't know how glorious it is, 
then, to fly through the air at the rate of forty miles an 
hour. 

Ivy, Is that what makes you look so slender about the 
waist ? 

Louise. No, you odd child ; that is because my dress is 
tight-fitting. 

Ivy. Mother and I wear our dresses loose. She says it is 
healthy to have the weight of one's clothes swung from the 
shoulders. Uncle says mother is a sensible woman, and the 
least frivolous one he ever saw. Are you frivolous? 

Louise (surprised, but laughing). I hope not. (Turns 
toward her brother. Ivy examines Louise's long train very curi= 
ously, smoothing it with her hands.) 

Kenneth (aside). She is as innocent and uncultured as 
the calves and the lambs. 

Frank (aside). I wonder if all young ladies are as 
pretty as my Cousin Louise! 

Ivy. I say. Cousin Louise, what do you call this part of 
your dress hanging on the floor ? 

Louise. That is my train. 

Ivy, Why, it must be terribly in your way. How do you 
manage when you want to climb a tree for apples, or cherries, 
or for blossoms ? 

Louise (horrified). Climb a tree ! That is something I 
never did in my life. 

Frank. How odd ! 

Louise. Young ladies don't climb trees, except when brought 
up exclusively in the country. 



18 NATURE WINS. 



Ivy. And did you never ride on horseback ! 

Louise. No, never. 

Frank. And did you never ride on horseback, Kenneth ? 

Ken. No; I suppose I should be ashamed to say I 
never mounted a horse in my life. 

Ivy. Aren't they ignorant, Frank? 

Frank. Yes; but we'll have to teach them. 

Ivy. Oh, that will be fun {clapping her hands). We'll 
show these city cousins what good sport is! 

Frank. Can you shoot a pistol, Kenneth! 

Ken. (indifferently). Oh, I suppose I could, but I never 
tried it. 

Ivy. Brother and I are real good shots. 

Louise. What ! a girl shoot a pistols. 

Ivy. Yes indeed ; uncle taught us, so that we can hit the 
mark every time. He says no lady's education should be 
considered complete until she learns to shoot well; and above 
all, to swim. 

Ken. {surprised). Can you swim? 

Ivy. I can that. You should see me strike out into deep 
water {makes motions with her arms). I think it the best 
sport in the world — better even than skating. 

Louise. Can you skate on ice ? 

Ivy. Yes; where else should I skate — on the ploughed 
fields ? {Laughs.) 

Louise. No; but on parlor skates, in the house. / can 
do that. 

Ivy. I never saw 7 any parlor skates, but I should think 
all the fun would be lacking, if you were not out in the 
open air. 

Ken. {to Ivy). So you can swim, can you, you strange 
little country girl? 

Ivy. Yes indeed ; and I would not take a million dollars 
for the fun I have in the water. We have a fine, big creek, 
with some deep holes in it, and bathing suits. We'll teach 
you both to swim ; won't we, Frank ? 

Frank. Yes; I'll teach Cousin Louise. 

Louise. I thank you very much, I'm sure, but I'd rather 
be a spectator. I'm afraid of the water. 

Ivy {laughing at Louise). Oh, what a coward! I'll teach 
Cousin Kenneth, though. 

Ken. Thank you ; I'd be very glad. Every man and 
woman, too, ought to know how to swim, Perhaps we shall 
1m- able to persuade my sister to venture. 



NATURE WINS. 19 



Frank. There are two things that I have not been able to 
teach my sister, though. She has gone hunting with me, 
and fishing with me, but she makes neither a good hunter 
nor fisherman. She is too pitiful. She wants to throw all 
the fishes back in the water before they die, and she hides 
her face, so as not to see the little squirrels and birds shot. 

Ivy. Yes ; that seems too cruel. 

Ken. {aside). She has some womanliness after all. I 
thought her sweet face could not belong to a thoroughly 
manish girl. 

Ivy. But I tell you what I love to do — to seine for fishes, 
and keep them in a tiny pond to themselves, for pets. That 
is, I used to think it fun, but brother laughs at me now, and 
says it is too childish for a big girl. 

Frank. Yes ; such a good Latin, German, and French 
scholar as she is, ought to give up such childish play. 

Ken. You study something else, then, besides shooting 
and fishing and horseback riding. 

Ivy. Yes, mother and uncle make us study hard, too. How 
far are you advanced in Latin, Cousin Louise? 

Louise {ashamed). I never studied Latin. 

Ivy. Why, what do city people learn ? 

Louise. We go to school and study till we can pass our 
examinations and get our diplomas. 

Ivy. Diplomas! Oh, mother told me they did not amount 
to a row of pins. 

Louise. And then we come out in society. 

Ivy. How do you do that? I never learned that. 

Louise (with patronizing tone). Of course not. People have 
no society in the backwoods. In summer, we go to lawn 
parties, on excursions, and to picnics. Did you ever go to 
picnics? 

Frank. No, never. 

Louise. Oh, how much you have missed. And in winter, 
we go sleighing and to parties. Can either of you dance ? 

Frank and Ivy. Dance ! No. (Looking ashamed.) i 

Louise (turning to her brother). Just think of it, Kenneth, 
they don't know how to dance ! I think one's education is 
hardly finished unless one goes to dancing-school. It teaches 
a woman to be graceful. 

Ken. (lightly). I rather think it does. We shall have to 
teach them. I will teach Cousin Ivy, and you teach Frank. 

Ivy and Frank. Thank you ; we'd like to learn. 

Ken. This is the way. y (Takes his sister in his arms and 
whirls away in a waltz). 



20 NATURE WINS. 



Ivy. It is lovely, and yet, it looks rather ridiculous, too. 
But if young ladies have to learn it, I'd like for you to teach 
me. Mother never told us about it. 

Frank. It is beautiful. Do teach me, Cousin Louise. (He 
takes Louise in his arms and dances with her rather awkardly.) 

Louise. It will not be hard to teach you. (Shows him steps 
at back of stage.) 

Ken. Now, Cousin Ivy. (Holds out his arms for her. She 
starts to place herself in his arms, but hesitates, looks at him 
and blushes, and then shrinks back.) 

Ken. (still holding out his arms). Come ! 

Ivy. No, I can't. (Hesitates.) Here, take my hands and 
we will dance so. (They join hands and dance. When the 
dance is over, all come forward. One or more songs may be 
introduced here. Frank, L., Kenneth, L. c, Ivy and Louise, c.) 

Ken. We shall have to take several mornings and teach 
you to dance. 

Louise. Another pleasure we have, Ivv is going shopping. 

Ivy. What is that? 

Louise. Going about from shop to shop, binding materials 
for our dresses. 

Ivy. Oh, dear! how strangely you talk about things — 
so differently from mother. She says that is terribly tire- 
some. She goes fifteen miles to the nearest city to buy our 
clothes, and always comes back tired out. I have asked to 
go with her, but she always said it would give me unneces- 
sary fatigue. 

Louise. I think it great fun. I wouldn't have anybody 
do my shopping for me. 

Ivy. I should think you would require a great deal of dry 
goods, if you put so much of it on the ground in that funny 
thing you call your train. 

(Enter Mr. Leath and Mrs. Wallace, R. d. Come down, Mr. 
L., R., Mrs. W., r. c.) 
Mrs. W. When I met you a while ago, Kenneth, I was 
very much struck with your likeness to your mother. 

I am glad you think so. She has talked to us often 
of her intimate friendship with you. 

Mr. L. Have our rural children been entertaining you, 
or is it hard for you to find anything in common to talk 
about? 

Mrs. W. 1 must beg of you and Louise, Kenneth, not 
to teach my children to be too worldly. I have purposely 
brought them up in the country entirely, far from all the 



NATURE WINS. 21 



fashion and nonsense of the world, and wish them to remain 

quite unsophisticated for some time to come. 

(During the foregoing conversation, Ivy so greatly admires Louise's 
train that she takes table-cover from table, c. f., pins it on her own 
dress, so as to make a train, and takes Louise's lace handkerchief, 
places it on her own head with hair pins, in such a way as to form 
an airy bonnet. Louise, seeing the pantomime, comes to her assist- 
ance, and takes bunch of roses from vase on the table, and pins it 
on the side of Ivy's improvised bonnet. Ivy struts the stage, look- 
ing back at her train, delighted.) 

Mrs. W. (perceiving Ivy). Oh Ivy, how can you ? 

Ivy. I want to look like Louise, mother. See what a 
beautiful, long dress she is wearing. 

Mrs. W. (aside). I fear that she is already becoming 
demoralized. 

Louise. It is human nature, Cousin Mildred, for young 
ladies to like some adornment. I heard a magnificent 
preacher say once in a sermon, that there was something 
lacking in a true woman's nature if she did not like to array 
herself becomingly. 

Mrs. W. My opinion of young ladies who are given over 
to fashion is that they are very frivolous. 

Louise. But, Cousin Mildred, a young lady may be a gen- 
uine, thoughtful woman and, and far from given over to 
fashion, and yet like to dress becomingly, from an artistic 
love of the beautiful, and a general sense of the fitness of 
things. 

Mrs. W. Don't put such ideas into Ivy's head. She is 
only a child yet. 

Ivy. I must be nearly as old as Louise, mother. How old 
are you, Louise? I am seventeen to-day. 

Louise. I am just eighteen. 

Ivy. And what a grown-up young lady you are ! Mother, 
I would look nice and grown, too, if I had on pretty things 
like hers. Oh, isn't it splendid to be a young lady! (Struts 
about, looking at her table= cover train.) 

Mrs. W. ^aside). This will never do! 

Ivy. Mother, do let me be grown-up and wear long dresses. 
It must be glorious to go to parties ! (All laugh.) 

Ken. Louise has had some lovers since she came out, 
but I don't think she has lost her heart yet. 

Ivy. Lovers! Is that something pretty to wear? I must 
have some of that, too. Tell me about it, Cousin Kenneth. 

Ken. Certainly. 



22 NATURE WINS. 



Frank. Well, come ; he can tell you out on the lawn. We 
are going to practice pistol shooting. (All go out L. d., but 
Mrs. Wallace.) 

Mrs. W. This is horrible! Come back, Ivy! (Ivy, who 
is just leaving after the others, returns). It distresses me, Ivy, 
to see you growing like these city cousins. 

Ivy. But aren't they splendid? I didn't know city 
people were so nice. Now, Louise is the finest creature I ever 
saw. She is prettier than the red-birds. 

Mrs. W. She looks more like a peacock with that ridicu- 
lous trail, and here you are aping it. 

Ivy (looking ruefully at her table=cover train). But, mother, 
you must confess that the young man is lovely. I thought 
all young men were like my brother Frank, but this one is 
far prettier. There is a light in his eyes, when he looks you 
squarely in the face, that is beautiful. He wanted to take 
me in his arms and dance, but somehow I couldn't. It seemed 
so strange It could not have been wrong, though, because 
Louise danced so with my brother. Kenneth took my hands 
while we danced ; and oh, how it did make my fingers tingle. 
It was like touching that electric battery you have. 

Mrs. W. Ivy, come immediately to your room and pack 
your trunk. You and I are going away on this evening's 
train. 

Ivy. And leave these beautiful, sweet cousins? 

Mrs. W. Yes; your uncle and Frank can entertain them. 

(A pistol shot is heard from without, followed by screams from 
Louise. Enter Mr. Leath, L. d.) 

Mr. L. Sister, Kenneth has accidentally shot himself. 
Let us tie up his wound the best we can and send quickly 
for a doctor. I think it is only a slight wound in the arm. 
(Enter Kenneth, L. d., with Frank supporting him on one side 
and Louise on the other. Kenneth sits on sofa.) 

Ivy (seating herself on the other end of sofa). Oh, do let 
me help him in some way. Lean on me, Cousin Kenneth. 
(Kenneth stretches himself out on sofa, with his head resting 
in Ivy's lap or arms.) 



Curtain. 
END OF SECOND ACT. 



NATURE WINS. 23 



ACT III. 

Scene— A lawn with country house visible on the left. . One 
chair and a sort of out=door sofa. Ivy is sitting in chair, c. 
Louise and Frank are standing R. c. 

Louise. Since Kenneth rested so well all last night, and is 
better to-day. could we not walk about a little ? This quaint 
old country place is something entirely new to me. 

Frank. I shall be delighted to show you all the pretty 
walks. {Louise takes his arm, and they start off, leaving Ivy.) 

Ivy. I say, Cousin Louise, is it the fashion in the city for 
only two walk at a time ? 

Louise. It is customary for young people to go in couples. 
{Start off again ; but, on second thought, turn once more, still 
holding arms.) Will you come with us, Ivy ? 

Ivy, No, thank you ; it would not do to go contrary to the 
custom. {They start off once more. Turn again.) 

Frank. Ivy, we would like to have you walk with us. 

Ivy. No doubt you are both very anxious to have me ; 
but I wouldn't spoil a couple for the world. I'd rather sit 
here {seats herself on bench. Frank and Louise disappear, R.), 
where I can see Kenneth's window. I wonder why I love to 
watch his window? Before yeste.day, that window was the 
same to me as all the others in the house ; but now, it has a 
peculiar and wonderful charm. I hope he will soon be well. 
I feel quite sure he must be different from the sort of men 
mother has known, and far nobler and better. {Ivy sings a 
ballad.) 

Ken. {appearing at window). Thanks, Ivy; I have enjoyed 
the serenade. 

Ivy. Go back to your sofa, Cousin Kenneth. You should 
not stir about. 

Ken. Will you come in and read to me ? 

Ivy. Yes; directly. {Kenneth disappears. Ivy, still sit= 
ting, continues to hum the air oj her song. John Wallace is 
seen approaching slowly from the back. Comes before Ivy. 
She screams at the sudden sight of him.) 

Mr. Wallace (r. a). Hush! you will alarm the house- 
hold. 

Ivy {rising). Who are you, sir? 

Wat. You need not be afraid of a poor old man like me. 
I wish I had a daughter like you. It would take away the 
horror of death if I could die in her arms. 

Ivy. Why, how strangely you talk, sir. 



24 NATURE WINS. 



Wal. Perhaps I may seem a little wild to you. Your 
mother is a misanthrope, is she not? 

Ivy. What right have you to discuss my mother? 

Wal. I had a daughter like you, and that is why I take 
an interest in you. 1 knew your mother years ago. She 
has many fine traits of character, but she has made a mis- 
take in trying to bring up her daughter to be a man 
hater. If the man ever comes, young lady, whose voice is 
music to your ears, whose presence brings a glow of delight 
to your cheeks, and whom you have every reason to believe 
to be an noble man, do not renounce, for any one's whims, 
your birthright to happiness in this world. You have the 
right to choose for yourself whether you shall marry or 
remain single all your life. 

Ivy. Mother says an old maid's life is the happiest in the 
world. 

Wal. An old maid's life is often so unhappy and lonely 
that she is obliged to resort to nursing dogs and cats upon 
her lap, instead of the little children that should be there. 
I have seen many lonely old maids, and many happy wives 
and mothers. One should not judge of all human life by 
one's own narrow experience. The drunken man believes 
every one else to be intoxicated ; but that does not make it 
true. I have had a very sad life, but I hope you will have 
a bright one. 

Ivy. Thank you, sir. I suspect there must be some 
peculiar reason why you should take such interest in me. 

Wal. Yes; there is, Ivy. I am very feeble; I have not 
long to live, and there is no one to take an interest in me. 
Would you be kind and pitiful to me ? I know you have a 
good heart. 

Ivy. I feel very sorry for you, sir. 

Wal. Do you, dear? Do you, my little Ivy? ((Puts his 
arms about her. Ivy screams and struggles. Kenneth rushes 
from the house, with his left arm in a sling. With his right 
hand he catches hold of the old man and pulls him away from 
Ivy. 

Ken. What do you mean, old man, by this behavior? 
Who is he, Ivy ? 

Ivy. I do not know. I never saw him before. 

Wal. I mean no harm, sir. I am weak and ill. I 
thought she would be kind to me. 

Ivy. Poor old man ! Perhaps he has no relative in the 
world. 



NATURE WINS. 25 



Wal. I am all alone. I had a wife and three children 



once. 



Ivy. Did your wife die? 
Wal. No; she is still living. 
Ivy Did she leave you ? 

Wal. No; I left her, and this is my punishment. I am 
ill, and shall probably die alone. {Totters toward a seat. 
Kenneth assists him, and he sits.) 

Ken. (to Ivy). He must be insane. His eyes have a strange, 
wild look. He may have wandered off from his friends. 
(Enter Mrs. Wallace and Mr. Leath, l., and Frank and Lou= 

ise, R.) 
Mrs. W. I thought I heard some one scream. Why, Ken- 
neth, you will aggravate your wound by stirring about. It 
is very imprudent. Who" is the stranger? 

Ivy Oh, mother, he is a poor old, helpless man, who says 

that he has no friends. I feel so sorry for him ; but at first 

I was frightened and screamed. 

Mrs W. (to Wal). Have yo no home, sir? 

Wat No ; I long ago forfeited all claims to my home. 1 

had a wife and three children ; but I was a scientist, so 

so absorbed in my studies that I was unconscious ot the cold, 

selfish way in which I was neglecting my family. I was^ an 

enthusiast— a monomaniac— men said. I did not appreciate 

the blessings Fate had strewn in my path. You think me 

mad now ? No ; my mind is now clear, and I understand all : 

but then I was mad, and craving for knowledge that could 

not bless me as the domestic happiness I might have had 

for the wishing. . n _ 

Ken Human beings are rarely satisfied. Men are every 
day throwing away jewels and going in search of stones. 

Wal That was* just my case, young man. 1 had a lovely 
wife who left a luxurious home for me ; who worked lor me 
without a murmur while I studied in idleness ; and who bore 
three children during the four years of our married lite. 

Ivy Why, that sounds like my mother ! 

Wal God pity your mother, then, young lady I left my; 
wife and children in such a helpless condition that one of 
the little ones died. Ingrate, and heartless, selfish fool that 
I was, I could find it in my heart to go away to a foreign 
country to seek my fortune. But I was not as selfish as 1 
seemed 7 I was thinking always of those I had left at home, 
and hoping to make a name by which I could gain them a 

fortune. 

Frank. That sounds like my father ! 



26 NATURE WJXS. 



s 



Wal. Your father must have been a wretched man, then, 
young man. In a few months I started to return home. To 
make a long story short, the ship in which I sailed encoun- 
tered a furious storm, and went down. I was found clinging 
to a plank, by some savages, picked up, and taken to their 
village, in, I know not, what wild country. They made me 
their slave, and put upon me such heavy work that my con- 
titution became entirely broken. 

Mrs. W. And how long did you live among them ? 

Wal. Sixteen years and a half. My hands are hardened 
and horny from labor. After watching and waiting all those 
long, weary years, for a chance to escape, a ship passed near 
us one morning. I signaled her, and was taken up. On re- 
turning to my native land, I searched out my family. 

Mr. L. You found them ! They are living ! 

Wal Yes, they are living, but almost dead to me. I did 
not wish to shock my wife by a too sudden appearance. I 
lingered around her house for a glimpse of her and my chil- 
dren. I saw them one day sitting under the trees, and heard 
her giving them her history. 

Louise. It sounds like a romance. 

Wal. She told them of my coldness, of my neglect, and 
desertion of her, but she did not make me one-tenth as bad 
as I had painted myself during all those years I spent in a 
savage land. 

Mrs. W. Oh, God! it is my husband ! 

Wal. I could not go away without speaking to my 
daughter, for I hoped her young and tender heart would have 
some pity — perhaps, some love for me. Was I not right, Ivy ? 
{Mrs. Wallace is overcome with emotion, and hides her face 
in her hands.) 

Ivy {falling on her knees beside his chair and embracing him). 
Oh, father — my poor father! Indeed you were right. 

Wal. And you forgive me for leaving you fatherless all 
these years ? 

Ivy. Yes, father. It was not your fault that you were 
kept by the savages all these sixteen years. 

Wal. And Frank, can you make friends with me, in what 
is, perhaps, my last hour ? 

ank {taking his hand). Yes. father, with all my heart. 

Mildred (Mrs. Wallace raises her head and gazes at 

him), I dare not ask your forgiveness. I do not deserve it. 

Our two children can be my mediators. You love them and 

may do what they ask. 

Mrs. Vv. If L have entertained any hard feelings, John, 
all these years, they arc softened now by the realization 



NATURE WINS. 27 



that your health is so broken, and that you are prematurely 
aged. It makes my heart ache to think of the terrible life 
you have lead. (She goes to Mr. Wallace. He arises and they 
embrace.) 

Mrs. W. Oh, brother, come quickly ! He seems faint. 
(Mr. Leath and Frank assist Mr. Wallace to a sofa, which 

Kenneth wheels forward}-, while Louise runs and fetches a 

pillow. The. old man is placed gently upon the sofa.) 

Wal. I am growing weak. 
■ Ivy (sitting beside him on the sofa). Oh, father, we will love 
and nurse vou so well that you will soon be strong again. 
■;Wal. I fear not, my little girl. My eyes are growing dim. 
(Stretches out his hands.) Mildred, where are you ? 

Mrs. W. (falling on her knees beside him and taking his 
hands). ; Here I am, John. 

' Ivy. See ! he has fainted. (Mrs. Wallace bends her head 
over his hands. Mr. Leath leans over Mr. Wallace and touches 
his forehead.) . . 

.Mr. L. No; he has not fainted. His poor, weary spirit 
has passed away. (Tableau.) 

'■'■■ ■ < '•"• - Curtain. 

END OF THIRD ACT. 



ACT IV. 



Scene..— -Country drawing=room. Frank Wallace and Louise 
Arlington are seated on a sofa, c. 

Frank. Do you know, Cousin Louise, that I like you bet- 
ter than anybody in the world ? < # 

Louise. Why, Frank ! Better than your mother and sis- 
ter whom you have known all your life? 
■■■Frank. Well, no (embarrassed)) I don't hardly like you as 
well as I do them, because my mother and sister have been 
kind to me all my life. It would be ungrateful of me, 
would it not, to like any one as well as I do them. 

Louise (disappointed). Y-e-s, I suppose it would 

Frank (still embarrassed). Yes, I like my mother better 
than anybody in the world. 

Louise (teasingly). Why, Cousin Frank; you just now 
said that you liked me better than anybody ! 

Frank (looking at her lovingly). I didn't mean it though. 
I don't like you at all. 



28 NATURE WINS. 



Louise. Don't like me ! What do you mean, sir, by being 
so contradictory ? 

Frank {sheepishly). I don't like you, Louise, because I love 
you better than anybody in the world. 

Louise. Ah ! better than your good mother ? 

Frank (very much embarrassed). Yes, that is — I'm 
extremely fond of her— but I don't get all in a tremble 
when she comes near me, and she doesn't give me rush of 
blood to the head as you do. 

Louise. Then I must affect you very strangely and unpleas- 
antly. 

Frank. Yes you do (Seeing Louise start) — that is, I mean 
— no you don't. What I am trying to say is, that I am in 
heaven when with you. 

Louise (teasingly). I shouldn't think it would be very 
heavenly to have a rush of blood to the head. 

Frank. Oh, but it is, though. 

Louise (demurely). Is that so? 

Frank (summoning up courage enough to put his 
face down close to hers, and taking her hand). Yes ; that 
sort is. (She looks at him and then looks away; he looks at her 
and then looks away. Then both look at each other). 

Frank. Well ? 

Louise. Well, go on. 

Frank. Goon? Go on with what? 

Louise. With what you have got to say, of course. 

Frank. But I haven't got anything to say. 

Louise (drawing away from him and going apart). He's the 
queerest lover I ever saw. He stops right in the middle of 
his love-making, and says there is nothing more to say. I 
can't help being fond of the boy ; his very peculiarities 
attract me. 

Frank (taking chair a little apart. Aside). I wonder why 
she doesn't tell me whether she loves me. 

Louise (aside). I have a great mind to make love to him. 
Perhaps he expects it. (Aloud.) I say, Cousin Frank, what 
makes you look so dejected. 

Frank (rising). Because you haven't told me whether you 
love me. 

Louise. Why, you haven't asked me. 

Frank. So 1 haven't. But then, I told you I loved you, 
without any asking. 

Louise. It isn't the lady's place to ask. 

Fran!:. Well, Louise, will you not make allowances for 
me ? You know lmw my mother has brought us up in such 
strict seclusion. I know nothing of the ways of the world. 



NATURE WINS. 29 



I only know that I love you with all my heart and soul. I 
know my love for you is very different from that I have for 
my mother and sister. I am happy when with you, and 
unhappy when away from you.^ 

Louise (aside). Oh, how ingenious and natural he is. His 
love is entirely sincere. It is not a thing born of the imagin- 
ation and nourished on sentimental novels and flirtations. 
(Aloud.) Cousin Frank, I have read in novels how people 
make love, and have had a few suitors myself. I know more 
about it than you do. Suppose we reverse the general order 
of things, and I will do the talking, you playing the part of 
the lady, and merely answering. 

Frank (heartily). Agreed! That will suit exactly. 
Louise. Now, to begin : I have an important communica- 
tion to make to you, Cousin Frank, which has been on my 
my mind some time. It is something which immensely con- 
cerns my happiness, and I cannot longer endure this sus- 
pense. (Clasps her hands to her heart, tragically^) I love you 
madly, devotedly! 

Frank (excitedly, and clasping her in his arms). On, do you,. 
Louise ? , 

Louise (disengaging herself). Don't, Frank ; you are play- 
ing the lady, and ladies do not do that. It is my place to 
clasp you in my arms. 

Frank. Oh, do! 

Louise. No; that would not be proper even if 1 were trie 
gentleman ; because I would first have to learn whether you 
loved me, and then obtain your consent to our marriage. 

Frank (excitedly). Our marriage ! . , . 

Louise. Certainlv; what would be the use in lovmg you, 
or asking yon to love me, if I didn't intend to ask you to 
marry me." (Aside.) That's business ! 

Frank. Why, yes— that's true. That means that we shall 
always be together. Oh, Louise, we will be married, won t 
we ? (Takes her hand.) 

Louise. Some day, perhaps ; but there are others to con- 
sult. We have to obtain the consent of our parents. 
(Enter Mr. Leath, R. d.) 

Mr. L. Oh ! Ah ! I see that I am not wanted here. I 

shall retire. 

Louise. No; don't go; we want you to come in. _ 
Mr L Yes; no doubt, you want me very much, indeed. 
Frank. We really do want you, uncle. I have some glori- 
ous news to tell you. 



30 NATURE WINS. 



H 



Mr. L. Has Louise taught you to dance. 

Frank. She has taught me something better than that. 
She has taught me to love her better than anything in the 
world. 

Mr. L. Of course I am very much surprised. Of course 
I have been blind during the last five weeks. It's human 
nature, and my sister, with all due deference to her superior 
intellect, can't fight against that. Put a given number of 
young people, evenly divided as to sex, in a country house, 
for several weeks, and there is almost certain to be some love 
making. I congratulate you both. You had just asked 
Louise to marry you, had you, m} T boy? {(Rubbing his hands.) 

Frank. No; I hadn't asked her to marry me. 

Mr. L. Well, you were just about to when I interrupted 
you. You had just asked her, then, if she loved you, if I may 
be so inquisitive? 

Louise {laughing). No, he hadn't asked me that, either. 

Mr. L. The mischief! I came in entirely too soon, then. 
What do you mean, sir ? Did you call me in to do your love 
making for you ? 

Louise. No, Cousin Paul ; I generously helped him out of 
the difficulty, when I found that he didn't know how him- 
self. 

Frank. What we would like for you to do, uncle, is 
to break the news to my mother. 

Mr. L. Hum! The dickens you do ? That's the hardest 
task of all. Now, I might easily have helped you out of the 
other difficulty. I could have made love to the young lady 
for you, and been glad of the chance. (Kisses Louise^) But 
as to this other matter (scratching his head) — my sister is a 
very determined woman in her opinions and plans. She is 
a very superior woman; but with all due deference to her 
superior intellect, I do not agree with her in all her theories. 
They are ton much against nature. However, we will go 
out and find a cool, shady place and talk it over. (Frank 
takes Louise's arm to lead her out.) I sha'n't help you a bit, 
Frank, I swear, if you are so impolite to me. ((Puts Frank 
■, takes Louise's arm and they exeunt L. n., Frank walking 
out after them.) 

(Enter Ivy and Kenneth, r. d.) 

Ken. Where did you get your trained dress, Ivy ? Has 
your mother relented in her notions about the fashions? 

No; Louise lent me this, and I had a curiosity to see how 
t would be. It must be human nature. Kenneth, for young 
ladies to Bomewhat like dress. 



NATURE WINS. 31 



Ken. Yes, doubfess ; but remember this, my dear little 
cousin : that a novice in any line is liable to goto extremes. 
Having been brought up something like a nun in a convent, 
you were enthusiastic in your first admiration of dress. That 
is the danger of being too strict with young people ; it is 
an almost inevitable result that they will go to extremes 
when the restraint is finally and suddenly removed. Here 
lies the great danger of "total abstinence " from liquor. The 
worst drunkards I have ever seen, have been men who never 
knew the taste of liquor till they were over twenty-one. 1 
knew, Ivy, when we first came, that your sudden liking lor 
fashion was merely on account of the novelty of the thing. 
Your fine mind and good heart, I am sure, will teach you to 
make love of dress subservient to your true womanly charac- 

Ivy You teach me so many wise things, Kenneth, or 
rather you teach me to think and form opinions for myselt. 
You seem quite well again, Cousin Kenneth. Your arm 
never pains you now? • • 

Ken No, not at all. As for my illness, I have rather 
enjoyed it, because it has kept me near you. 

Ivy Five minutes before you were wounded, mother had 
told me that I must come immediately to my room to pack 
my trunk for a journey. She was going to take me away, 
and leave you and Louise with uncle and Frank. 
Ken Why did she intend doing that ? 
Ivy Because she was afraid I would learn from you and 
Louise to be worldly and frivolous and what she calls senti- 
mental nonsense. 

Ken Your mother's life was a sad one. m 

Ivy Yes, very sad. That is why she has determined 
that l shall never marrv. She has talked to me a great deal 
about it lately. She says love is all imaginary and silly, 
and that marriages are generally unhappy. 

Ken Your mother is a noble woman, Ivy; but her own 
sad experience has warped her mind on that subject. Even 
your lather's return and sad death seemed to make no 
impression upon her fixed opinions. Love is of God, or why 
should all human beings have it in ; their hearts and feel 
exalted thereby. Her judgment is at fault, when she 
attempts to control such impulses in her daughter. She 
would make of your life a dreary matter of calculation, and 
trv to stultify the sweetest tendencies of your nature. 

Ivy. I am sure Tennyson, in this little book you have lent 
me tells of true love, so as to make it attractive, indeed. He 



32 NATURE WINS. 



has quite converted me to the belief that it is not all 
imaginary. 

Ken. I have learned of its truth in the last five weeks, 
since I have been here with you, Ivy. 

Ivy (starting violently'). With me ! ((Rises and canes front, 
very much agitated and trembling perceptibly. (Placing her 
hand upon her heart, in loud whisper.) With me ? 

Ken. Yes, with you, Ivy. Wounding my arm was a 
happy accident, because it prevented your mother from tak- 
ing you away from me. (Kenneth comes forward and tries to 
look in her face. She hides her face from him and trembles per= 
ceptibly.) What is the matter, dear child ? Why do you 
tremble so? (Takes one of her hands.) 

Ivy. I think I have a chill. 

Ken. No; your hand is burning. 

Ivy. Well, it is fever then. Let me go. (Tries to run 
away, but he takes both her hands and holds her.) 

Ken. No, Ivy ; it is the tumultuous beating of your own 
heart, because you have just learned the greatest iesson life 
can teach. / have only learned really what love means since 
I have known you. I had heard of it often, and read of it, 
but only thought it idle talk, or the silly vaporings of sen- 
timental novelists. Now I know what it means. 

(Enter Mrs. Wallace, R. d., with looks of dismay and horror, 
on perceiving Kenneth holding Ivy's hands and leaning over 
her. ) 

Mrs. W. (aside). My God! What I feared has come! (In 
severe tones.) Ivy, go to your room. [Exit Ivy, R. d.] Ken- 
neth, before you were wounded, I intended taking Ivy away 
immediately, but stayed to nurse you. You know perfectly 
well what my fear was. You ill repay our kindness by 
making love to my daughter. 

Ken. I thought the best way to show gratitude was by 
loving people, cousin. 

Mrs. W. Under the circumstances, Kenneth, your speech 
is extremely impertinent. You are behaving very wickedly 
to flirt with her. 

Ken. I could die a thousand deaths before I could intend 
any harm to her, madam. I love her too well. My dearest 
wish is for her happiness. 

Mrs. W. What right have you to entertain any dear 
wishes in relation to my daughter, sir? You are merely 
a passing acquaintance, whom she has known for a few 
week 8— a good-looking cousin, who has visited us for awhile, 



NATURE WINS. 33 



but who will go away to-morrow, and she will forget you in 
the course of another week. 

Ken. I hope not. I almost flatter myself that she will 
never forget me. I will trust my case in her hands. 

Mrs. W. You speak with the conceit and self-assurance 
pertaining to all young men. But I forgive that. I know 
men too well not "to know it is born in them. They can't 
help it. I suppose it will be necessary to tell you flatly, 
that I intend my daughter to remain single all her life — to 
keep her with me always; not through my own selfish 
love, but for her best happiness. No man can ever love her as 
I do, and I do not believe marriage is for a woman's best good. 

Ken. I disagree with you entirely in your opinion, cousin. 
However^mHght yorrbe able to control her life through her 
obedience^to vour wishes, .you cannot control her heart. In 
this case, it is most certainly true that "man, or rather 
woman, proposes, and God disposes." 

Mrs. W. What do you mean ? 

Ken. That the Divine Being, who is working through all 
the laws of nature, has already kindled a spark of love in 
her heart. 

Mrs. W. God forbid that you should have stolen my 
child's heart from me ! I should consider it the most sinful 
robbery. But, surelv, surely she has not been captivated by 
your idle love-making. She has not been foolish enough to 
tell you that she loved you. Ivy is a sensible girl. 

Ken. No, she has not told me so in words, but my love 
for her has taught me to read her eyes. I believe she is far 
from indifferent to me. 

Mrs. W. There your natural man's conceit^ crops out 
again. I implore you, Kenneth, not to take advantage of 
Ivy's youth, to put such ideas into her head. She is only a 
child of seventeen! ■ 

Kenneth. Children of seventeen sometimes know their 
minds pretty well. 

Mrs. W. I intend that she shall remain a child lor many 
vears to come. I shall do my utmost to save her from such a 
fate as marriage. I want you to leave us to-morrow, Ken- 
neth Ivv will soon forget you, even if she should be a little 
interested now. But we shall arrange matters more defin- 
ately after I have talked with her. 

Kenneth My only wish is that you should do what is tor 
Ivy's best good'. But my idea of happiness and yours are 
quite different. [Exit, L. d.] 



34 NATURE WINS. 



Mrs. W. Yes ; my ideas used to be like yours when I was 
a young fool. He is'a noble young fellow, though he selfish- 
ly wants to take my child from me. I must confess the boy 
has a silver tongue ; he reminds me of his mother, whom I 
loved so well. If I wished Ivy to marry, he would be my 
very choice. I must manage her with great policy, and not 
seem too harsh. (Sits.) 

{Enter Ivy, pale and agitated, R. rO 

Mrs. W. Child, where did you get that long-trained, 
ridiculous thing you have on? 

Ivy, It is one of Louise's dresses she lent me. 

Mrs. W. The sister tries to fill your head full of frivolous 
notions of fashion, and the brother tries to corrupt your 
heart. 

Ivy. No, no, Mother ; he is too noble, too whole-souled, too 
generous, to have an evil thought. 

Mrs. W. Ah, indeed ! Why don't you use every grand 
adjective in the English language to describe him? Now, 
I look upon him as a selfish young man, who is ready for 
pastime to make love to the first nice looking girl he meets, 
and perhaps get her silly mind interested in him, and then 
to go away and forget her in a few days, or at least weeks. 

Ivy (vehemently). No; I am sure he could not do that. 

Mrs. W. Could not go away and forget you ? (Ivy is 
silent and abashed.) Foolish child, I know men better than 
you do. Fortunately, I know best what is for your good. I 
have just told Kenneth to leave this place to-morrow morn- 
ing. After the first few days, he will never think of his lit- 
tle country cousin again, and surely the pains I have taken 
to train you to use your reason against all sentimental non- 
sense, will teach you to think calmly of him as a mere pass- 
ing acquaintance, whom you will never see again. 

Ivy. Oh, no; he must not go! I cannot live without 
him. 

Mrs. W. Why, Ivy, is it possible that this is my sensible 
little gill, who was only a child yesterday ? 

v. Mother, I am no longer a child. 1 am a woman. 

Mrs. W. And you arc ready to forsake the mother who 
lias been all in all to you for the last seventeen years, for a 
lover of five weeks ? 

v. Oh, mother, don't talk so ; it will break my heart. 

teels and lays her arms upon her mother's lap.) My heart 

is large enough for you both. If you doubt my love for you, 

tell me to give him up, and I will do as you bid me, though 



NATURE WINS. 35 



it kill me. Mother, can you be cruel enough to part us for- 
ever ? ((Bows her head in her hands.) 

Mrs. W. (aside). Oh, heaven ! what can I say to her ? 
Even though she leave the decision with me, since it has 
come to this, it is hard to pronounce a sentence that may 
wound her, I know not how much. (Aloud.) You may well 
bow your head with shame, Ivy. I am amazed that you 
should be so wildly fascinated with this stranger. 

Ivy (lifting her head proudly). You use the wrong word 
when you say shame, mother. I am proud of this love. It 
so exalts me that I feel as though it were the very voice of 
the omniscient God whispering in my heart. It must be 
pure and noble. 

Mrs. W. (rising and speaking aside). All my intended sar- 
casm fails me. I cannot answer such words. 

Ivy (rising). Mother, your life with my father was a very 
sad one ; but your regret that you ever married seems to me 
a sort of contradiction. Suppose you had remained single ; 
your parents passed away long before old age came to you, 
as was natural, and would have left you with onty a brother 
to care for. If he had married, as might also have been nat- 
ural, had reared a family, and there had been no appropriate 
niche for you to fill in his family circle ; if he had been too 
much absorbed with the cares and joys of his own immediate 
relations, to give you many thoughts or much affection, think 
what a lonely, hard and unloving life you would have passed 
in your childless old age. Such a life might be mine some 
day in the future, when my brother is married and absorbed 
in his own family. Would you condemn me to such lonli- 
ness, and to forever stifle the cravings of maternal love, that 
will creep into the heart of every maiden, though she be as 
pure as the angels, because God has intended it so, and it is 
one of his eternal laws ? Surely, your children have been a 
great joy to you, and have repaid you tenfold for the early 
misery of your married life. 

Mrs, W. They have, indeed. Without you my life would 
have been utterly worthless. I have been too selfish/ and 
have wanted to absorb yours too much into mine. Forgive 
me, child, for my selfishness and blindness. My eyes are 

somewhat opened, (t iff* Iwj-f^vw |7|T " /iw.v position awd^ He"f"> 

her.) 

Ivy. I must tell you of an adventure I had a few days ago, 
mother. I felt in a mood for horseback-riding, when it did 
not seem convenient for any one to go with me ; so I went 



36 NATURE WINS. 



down to the lot for my pony, myself, and bridled and saddled 
him. I rode along up the avenue, without intending to go 
any farther than the end of it, as you have often told me not 
to go as far as the turnpike. But the avenue gate was open, 
and I was in a brown study, so my pony took his own course, 
and carried me on and on, without any distinct intention on 
my part to be disobedient to your wishes. I did not realize 
that I was two miles from home, until I reached the country 
road, and saw an odd-looking covered wagon, standing near 
the fence, two horses grazing, and on further investigation, 
a family sitting around a camp-fire, over in the woods, on 
our side of the turnpike. 

Mrs. W. Were they gypsies or immigrants? 

Ivy. I don't know, but they were fair-haired people, and 
gypsies are dark, are they not? They were a young man 
and his wife and their child — a little creature not two years 
old — who was so rosy and beautiful, that I felt as though I 
must go nearer and have a better look at her, so I summoned 
courage to leave my pony tied to the fence, and went over 
where they were. 

Mrs. W. {horrified). You joined a party of dirty immi- 
grants ! Oh, Ivy, I am shocked! 

Ivy. But they were not dirty, mother. They were dressed 
poorly, but were quite clean. They had food prepare dover 
the fire, and while it was cooking, the mother took the child 
to a brook near by and washed its face and hands. You 
should have seen that lovely little child, mother! It was 
the first baby I ever saw, and you have never told me how 
sweet they were. It was as beautiful as the models you 
have taught me to draw from. When I looked at its rosebud 
mouth and laughing, innocent blue eyes, and thought how 
perfectly ignorant it was of all sin, I thought it must be very 
nearly akin to the angels. The mother was so proud of it, 
and looked so supremely happy when holding it in her arms. 
She kissed the child so joyfully, that I asked if I might kiss 
it too ; and I did kiss the lovely little darling, as many times 
as it would let me. The man was not rough or cruel a bit to 
his wife, but looked very much pleased when I praised the 
baby. 

Mrs. W. {turning sadly away from Ivy). Ah, me ; there 
are some instincts it seems hard to educate people out of. 1 
have been trying for seventeen years of my daughter's life to 
train all the womanhood out of her, and here she goes wild 
over the first little immigrant brat she sees on the highway. 
It is human nature, and I am afraid that it is something I 



NATURE WINS. 37 



cannot change. To return to Kenneth, Ivy. You are so 
young, I am afraid you hardly know your own heart. You 
have seen so few men. 

Ivy. Try me, mother ! Take me out into the world 
among the young people, and you will see that I shall cling 
to Kenneth. Oh, mother, do relent and say that you do not 
object to him. 

Mrs. W. I have not the least objection to him person- 
ally. On the contrary, the young fellow is extremely agree- 
able to me. 

Ivy. I must kiss you for that speech mother. '{Kisses her). 
And now, darling mother, may I tell Kenneth that he need 
not go ? {Caressing her mother). Say yes, say yes ; do say yes. 

Mrs. W. Dear Child, I am thinking only of your happi- 
ness. You may tell him to stay. [Exit Ivy, R. d.] 
[Enter Mr. Leath with Louise on his arm, and Frank follow^ 

ing, L. d. They all stand before Mrs. Wallace, and fidget 

and look sheepish. ~] 

Mrs. W. (R. a). Why, I declare, you all look as guilty as 
if you had been engaged in a gunpowder plot. Brother, I 
know that you can never have been engaged in a conspiracy 
that is wrong. 

Mr. L. It may be what you consider wrong, sister ; but 
then, you have some theories that are rather against nature. 
Now, with all due deference to your superior intellect— 
[Enter Kenneth and Ivy, arm in arm, R. d.] 

Ken. (c.) Hurrah ! Everybody congratulate us ! My 
good mother, that is to be, has consented to our engagement 
—Ivy's and mine. {Shakes Mrs. Wallace's hand.) 

Mrs. W. I said nothing about an engagement, but I said 
you might stay.. I have changed my mind about that, how- 
ever. 

Ivy {taking her other hand, R.). You have not forgotten 
your promise to me mother? 

Mrs. W. I have concluded that we will all go on a visit 
to my old friend— the mother of Louise and Kenneth. She 
should have something to say in the matter of an engage- 
ment between you and Ivy, Kenneth. As to my consent to 
an engagement, it will only be conditional. It must be an 
engagement of not less than two years, so that each of .you 
may be certain that you know your own minds. Ivy 
is very young to choose, now. She is only seventeen, 
and must have the privilege of changing her mind. You 



38 NATURE WINS. 



invited yourselves to visit us, and now we' will invite our- 
selves to visit your mother. Then Ivy can see something of 
society before she becomes bound. 

Louise. Our mother would be delighted to have you come. 

Ivy. I care nothing for the society of any one but Ken- 
neth and my friends, but I should like to go to know Ken- 
neth's mother. 

Frank. And I should like to know Louise's mother. 

Ivy. You, too, Frank, are particularly interested in 
Louise's mother. I fancy that you, also, would like her for a 
mother-in-law. 

Frank. I should like it above everything in the world if I 
had my mother's consent. 

Mr. L. Now, sister, the gunpowder plot is out. Since 
you are so lenient to Ivy, I do not fear for Frank's fate. 

Mrs. W. No; you need not fear. I began with a preju- 
dice against Kenneth and Louise, because I feared they 
would intefere with my plans ; but now I love them as my 
own children. 

Mr. L. That speech is worthy of a woman of your 
superior intellect. 

Mrs. W. In giving my consent to Frank's engagement, 
I must, however, make the same condition that I did in Ivy's 
case. He is only twenty years old, Louise is only eighteen, 
and two years from now will be time enough to marry. 
Under all the circumstances, you will surely think my terms 
very easy. I love my children too well to act the harsh 
mother, when I know their hearts are already lost. My 
game is lost. 

Ivy (r. c, taking Kenneth's hand). And " Nature Wins." 



RS. W. 
R. 


Ivy. 

R. C. 


Ken. Louise. 
('. c. 

Curtain. 

THE END. 


Frank. 

L. C. 


Mr. L 

L. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 






Q 017 401 512 



